It had been three months, a week and twenty hours since Sherlock had arrived at the mental institution. At only sixteen, Mycroft hadn't been able to do much in the way of controlling what happened to his baby brother, though that isn't to say he didn't try; apparently, being a genius means nothing if you're not of age.

Things hadn't even been that bad at home, the nine year old child thought, sulking on the stiff board of a bed. He knew his parents discussed him at night, how he had no friends, how he took no interest in the things his peers did. So what? Mycroft had been the same way, hadn't he? They were special. Weren't parents supposed to comfort their children and console them about their 'individuality?'

The boy sniffed, blinking furiously as the fog of loneliness settled in. He wouldn't cry. Crying was for…what was the word father used…kitties? Something.

The knock at the door jolted the boy and he quickly pretended to play sleep. It was most likely one of the orderlies checking to make sure the kids were actually sleeping. He was surprised to find it was the counsellor, a man that seemed fresh out of college with a degree no higher than his masters and something that put Sherlock off greatly. At the time, he wouldn't have known what the dilated pupils, the abundance of seemingly friendly touches, and so on meant.

It soon wouldn't be something he could forget.

As the man, almost still a child himself, made his way to Sherlock's bed, the curly haired boy nearly went blue trying to regulate his breathing, hair standing on edge. This wasn't okay. This was undeniably, irrevocably not okay.

A hand rose to shake at his shoulder gently, as if it wasn't obvious Sherlock was really awake. "Hey there, kiddo," the older, Daniel, cooed.

Sherlock wanted to flee.

He did not call out, he didn't really move. His body seemed to be paralysed, he felt as if he were watching from the corner of the room as his clothes were stripped and fumbling hands groped and squeezed and pressed at him and wet, clumsy kisses were pressed against his pale skin.

Suddenly he seemed to snap back into himself, mouth opening to—to something, but he found cloth being shoved nearly down his throat, causing tears to well up as he gagged and tried to cough it up, hands having now been gripped by the counsellor in one hand as the other came to rest against his trachea.

The message was fairly clear, but once "Try that again and we'll see how you like being really choked," came out in a creepily deep tone the nine year old made it his mission to keep still. The sheer terror it struck kept him paralysed through the rest.

The event hardly was drawn out. It seemed Daniel grew bored of his compliance. He twisted away, disappointment flashing across his face before it settled into neutrality. He leaned in close and gently—how does one have the audacity to be gentle after that?—removed the wad of cloth from Sherlock's mouth and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and his left cheek before murmuring, "This means we have a special bond now, right? Don't worry, it'll get better. You'll learn to like it."

And with that, he was gone.

It wasn't five minutes more before Sherlock was retching on the floor.